


through miles of climbing hell

by takesguts



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8617384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takesguts/pseuds/takesguts
Summary: Apocalypse AU.  It's the end of the world, and what a fucking coincidence.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my .docs, it's short, not really descriptive, was probably supposed to be something bigger but I read over it today and decided I liked just what it was, as it is.

“Your teeth,” he says idly, examining the cracked skin of his knuckles.

 

 

 

“What?”

 

 

 

“I noticed your teeth first - back when.”

 

 

 

There’s a lot of quietness; so much that it’s nearly deafening. It’s making his skin crawl. For twenty three years, he believed he would die laughing. People said it was suicide when he refused to leave Gotham, but home is where the heart is.

 

 

 

He thinks that if he ever had a heart, it’s somewhere in the decay of this city.

 

 

 

Leave it to chaos he manages to run into the one other person who could never give up on Gotham. Corruption really has away of bleeding into the soul.

 

 

 

It’s the fucking apocalypse and Officer Jim Gordon is pissed they’re going to die together.

 

 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

 

 

“Oh, come on Jimmy, you’re a smart man. Don’t tell me you aren’t familiar with a little homo-eroticism.”

 

 

 

There it was, that twitch of his mouth. Almost there.

 

 

"It's cause I'm actually looking at bone," he leers, bouncing his eyebrows suggestively. He thinks, there's no way, not after all this, that Jim can't give a good laugh, just for shits. Just for fucking shits; because he's damn near positive he remembers seeing guts, and entrails. People fucking eating each other. Everything he's ever wanted. Not quite like this, perhaps.

 

 

Humanity, ruined. The point he tried to make seems pretty dismal, now. What, with no one around to listen.

 

 

But there's a wider crack, and he really should have thought the detective would be like stone. What does a little bit of mass destruction mean to a city's white knight? All in a days work, no sweat. However, he also knows that Jim Gordon's biggest weakness was that he was human.

 

 

On some nights - very few, but just every once in awhile - he would think about their first encounter. How authoritative Jim was, thinking some cruel, nutty circus freak murdered some kid's dear old mother. When it turned out he wasn't entirely wrong, that was the best part. All those instances Jim Gordon could have killed him, and didn't, how hard it made him that the detective could be manipulated time and time again to do the right thing; compelled by some sort of crippling moral compass.

 

 

"Jerome," he says.

 

 

"Be still my beating heart," he gasps, clutching a hand over his chest dramatically, "I never thought you'd say it."

 

 

Those blue eyes look almost ethereal against the grayness of his skin, the age on his handsome features. Jerome wonders if he looks the same, if he looks older too now, no longer gifted with that boyish charm that got him almost everything he ever wanted.

 

 

Almost. Jim Gordon is still like, number four. Maybe number two. The list kind of shortened when most of the population died.

 

 

"How the hell are you not dead?" The cop asks, changing subjects, and swiping a hand over his face as if he's still got some unshakable sense that he is doing the wrong thing still by interacting with a convicted murderer.

 

 

"You may find this incredibly hard to believe," Jerome starts, an exceptionally pleased grin crawling itself across his mouth, "but I'm pretty damn crafty."

 

 

A fuller crack, no teeth or anything, not what Jerome is really hoping for, but it's a step in the right direction. Outside, there's a toxic gas leak a couple of blocks down that's preventing any movement around the city. They have no food, very little water, and if you can't see and you can't breathe, then you can't fight. If you can't fight, then you die. It's pure dumb luck that this would happen.

 

 

Jerome just wants a smile, is all. Maybe a little bit of laughter. It's been quite awhile since he's seen anyone do that.

 

 

The look Jim gives him is steady and meaningful when he says, "That you fuckin' are, kid."

 

 

"I'll have you know, it's taking all of my willpower not to blush right now. Was that a compliment, Jimbo?"

 

 

Jim looks around, like he's nervous someone might hear him exchanging banter with one of Gotham's most notorious criminals. Newsflash, Jimmy, everyone's dead. Jerome has half a mind to remind him of this, but he gets the surest feeling it'd kill the mood.

 

 

"Yeah, well. Don't let it go to your head."

 

 

"I'll try my hardest not to, sir," Jerome says, nodding earnestly, "but I got to be honest, one would think you're flirting with me, if you squinted hard enough."

 

 

For all intents and purposes, Jim snorts, though Jerome doesn't know if he can count that. It's not as humorous as he would like, perhaps leaning more toward offended.

 

 

"A little homo-eroticism." He repeats, raising an eyebrow.

 

 

Delighted, Jerome sits a little straighter on the ground, his spine feeling stiff and sore from the pull, but he wants to look good and all. Is Jim playing along now?

 

 

"My darling Jimmy, didn't you ever think it was a weird coincidence I kept coming back for you?" Jerome inquires, scooting a little closer to the blonde. "Just a little bit bizarre that of all the places I could have killed my mother, it was Gotham that I chose, only to be apprehended by one of ah," he pauses, for a dramatic flare, "it's finest police detectives." He finishes by obviously checking the man out, eyes wide and dark.

 

 

"You're a sociopath, there's no -"

 

 

"Don't talk like them," Jerome interrupts, waving his hand dismissively, "you're not. You know better. It was all part of the plan, Officer. We were destined. How else would this happen? Us, just casually running into each other while the world is ending. One hell of a fucking coincidence, don't you think?"

 

 

The expression that flashes over the man's face, for just the briefest of moments, tells Jerome that he did, in fact, think of that. How flattering! Jerome's mind races, wonders how many times Jim's thought of him throughout this whole shebang. If it's been as many times as he's allowed as well. On those endless, dreadful nights where sleep wouldn't come, if he thought about Jerome like Jerome thought about him.

 

 

Encouraged, Jerome shifts to his knees; the press of linoleum isn't as unforgiving as it once used to be, softer now with the rot underneath. Jim stays as still as stone.

 

 

"So teeth, huh."

 

 

Jerome cackles, just like he used to, the sound ripping itself out of his ribcage, his throat, creaking in his vocal chords.

 

 

"Oh Jimmy," he croons, "that's only the first thing I noticed."

**Author's Note:**

> tanks for reading bbbsssss


End file.
